


Once Upon A December

by KenrakenOkwaho



Category: Anastasia (1997), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Slash, Introspection, M/M, Male Slash, Multi, No Smut, Original Character(s), Out of Character, Russian Bucky Barnes, Russian Empire, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Stealth Crossover, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, for now, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KenrakenOkwaho/pseuds/KenrakenOkwaho
Summary: Tsarevich Iakov Nikolaevich of Russia has never been one to absolve himself of any errors, that's why he cannot overlook Tsar Nikolai II Aleksandrovich's shattering mistakes. It doesn't stop him from grieving on the frontlines when he hears about his father's abdication. He grieves because his family's fate is sealed, their death the only outcome. Then, when all is lost, his will to live slowly withering away as he goes into hiding with a stranger he met while he was writhing in pain in a medical tent, rumours of his sister's survival reach his ears and his heart springs back to life. Deserting the army is never easy, but he will fight. For her, he will fight thousands of armies if need be!Or: The one where Bucky is the son of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, Steve goes missing, Tony is a witty saviour and Anastasia is alive.ON HIATUS!





	1. Ниспровержение/Nisproverzheniye/Downfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea came out of nowhere and it actually doesn't have a solid plot yet, but I thought it would be interesting to post the shaky prologue my brain managed to sustain while writing at an ungodly hour. The names are the equivalent of their American counterparts, authenticity is important in my world. Also, I am warning you from the beginning that I will take some not too dramatic liberties with their personalities so OOC on the horizon, people, since this is another universe and I find it difficult to keep them in character.
> 
> Enjoy and, if you like the idea, leave your feedback in the comments! Hugs!

Tsarevich Iakov Nikolaevich has never been one to overflow with glee when imperial balls threatened to intrude on his peacefulness. Glamour, riches, haughty nobles prancing around in their fancy clothes, he has hated this kind of world from the very beginning, peculiar thing if one's to takes into consideration that he was born with blue blood. Ever since he was a child, he dreaded the days when his mother would struggle to get him into his stuffy imperial garments and force him to spend hours upon hours of staring, smiling or fabulating with the strange attendants of such troublesome events. The joy that nobility finds in them eluded his mind from the moment he was able to think for himself, etiquette and far too narrow-minded people completely opposing his most basic perception of a good time. They said that he's too young to understand, but now, at twenty-four, he still lacks the ability to comprehend their views. Nonetheless, he got tired of this pointless, pitiful and irritating balls a long time ago, before duty compelled him to attend them, before he had to live up to his parents' expectations. All the whispered conversations unanimously accepted as proper during nights like these, about politics or bigoted perspectives over war, disgusting stories about how one of the 'noblemen' managed to seduce some innocent maid into his bed, 'respectable' women fawning over him like cats in heat.

 

Revolting.

 

This mentality is what sets him apart and he is glad for it, always felt out-of-place, but never meant to be a puppet, too honest to the point of being rude, too clever and reserved to actively participate in exchanges which only have the purpose to disturb. Of course, there are exceptions too, yet the essence of society ultimately stays the same. Sometimes, he wonders what a challenge it must be for these people to keep a polite distance, a fairly interested facade here, a feigned compliment here... surely, quite difficult, one has to know when to remain silent, when to smile, when to laugh, when to engage, a permanent strategy of controlling actions and emotions so that a pleasant illusion can take the place of a real individual. There's no denying that he had to abide to this unwritten code as well, but he prides himself because not once had he lied to the hypocritical people he conversed with. Perhaps he was not made to fathom finery, perhaps he was not meant to be part of the Imperial Family, but then again, he is and that cannot be changed.

 

He could go on for hours about the plethora of synonyms he can come up with to describe the full extent of this world, but, no matter how hard he tries to hate it, he keeps getting drawn to its unicity like a moth to a flame, familiar and laden with memories as gentle as the caress of a mother, yet as strong as a raging torrent. Assessing his surroundings for the hundredth time, he remembers the beautiful nights spent laughing with Stepan in some dark corner of the ballroom, whispering derisive jokes and trying to refrain from touching one another the way they wanted to. He misses those times so damn much... he misses the frail body writhing under his when they were skipping around on nightly escapades alone, he misses the shy lips slowly melting on his own, he misses the feelings they had, the certainty that they will stay by each other's side no matter what... they were so young, too immature to fully understand the profound essence of their powerful connection... Six years have passed since then, admittedly not much, but it feels like an eternity... His world had crumbled unexpectedly, Stepan disappeared and he never found out why or how... That wound will forever be left open, raw, bleeding deep inside even as he watches glimmers of gold mingle with the pure light of the candelabra, bouncing playfully across the luscious floor of the Winter Palace's grand ballroom.

 

Colourful gowns sway in tandem with the graceful twirls of the melancholic waltz, cheerful laughter resounds above the soft notes while his eyes follow the little girl dancing with the Tsar, auburn locks undulating when he lifts her up. With every day that flies by, Anastasia grows more and more into the woman she is destined to become, witty, lively, playful, smart and graceful. He always finds solace in simply being close to her, not that the other members of his family are any different, but she's the only one who can lighten up his mood, who can make him forget about the painful truths with her innocent soul and her kind, sincere smile, unblemished by lies. The giggles bubbling up every time they play hide and seek, every time he pampers her with sweets she's not supposed to eat, every time she begs him to tell her a story when her Grandmama isn't around, those precious moments make him feel at home, those moments show him that here is indeed where he _**belongs**_.

 

His father turns to wave at him after he puts her down and he grins back, the tingle of affection already blooming in his heart. Looking at his three sisters likely tittering about some young men they met, glancing at his mother chortling with Alexei across the room, clocking happy Anya move her tiny feet as she's running to their grandmother, serenity clasps his soul and fierce love warms his heart, unaware of the tragedy that soon will tear them all apart.

 

◇◇◇

 

The harsh sound of bullets echoes in his ears, booming over agonised screams and desperate shouts, heavy footsteps trudging on burnt soil, in trenches, in lethal holes as friends and soldiers alike fall victim to the enemies of Russian kind. Hell unleashed on earth is all he sees, the end of the mighty Romanovs imminent and near. He is no fool, he realises everything that's happening is their own fault for thinking they are Gods, for thinking they can handle what is obviously a long-lost war. The people are malnourished, ill, exhausted, infuriated, dead, life is slowly withering away behind frontlines and the incapacity of the army to maintain relative success has hit quite hard, their empire is shattering and they along with it, the winter rages on and spring seems to be so far. Somehow, he's thankful he chose to stand by his comrades in this war, fighting side by side with them instead of leaving with his father... he's thankful because this way he is lost to that treacherous country and its scoundrels... the news of his father's abdication springing fear and painful realisations right into his heart. And so, Tsarevich Iakov begins to grieve behind the cold, dead walls, eyes closing in anguish, grateful that he is not there to see their fall.

 

◇◇◇

 

In Sankt Petersburg, snow burying the broken statue of the Tsar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the title is the right translation of the word "downfall" so, any of you who are Russian or happen to know the language, feel free to correct me.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Вера/Vera/Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it isn't as boring as I fear it is and I also hope it isn't too OOC. Tony keeps his name because this variation is used in Russian as well according to the Internet.
> 
> Enjoy and Feedback! This is my mantra!

Searing pain courses through his burning body, blood gushing out of the deep wound in his shoulder like a crimson river. Slightly lower and his heart would've been the target instead. Just this simple thought makes him shiver uncontrollably as they carry him to one of the crowded medical tents, the bullet still lodged in his flesh, consciousness beginning to leave his tired mind. When he hears the agonised screams of his injured and mutilated comrades, he is as thankful as he is angry, his delirious state faltering at the gruesome sounds while he curses their enemies to the pits of hell. The image he paints when they lay him onto ensanguined sheets must be neither pretty nor unique for the nurse who comes at his side in a flash, blood and gravel mixing with the light sheen of cold sweat covering his body while teeth grit in a pointless attempt to keep the pain under control. In vain. All his efforts fly right out the proverbial window the second she literally plunges that damn forceps into raw sinews and tissues, trembling hands extracting the metal shell with torturously slow movements. It fucking hurts! By the time that darn piece of shit is out of his shoulder, he can barely keep his eyes open, energy seeping out him at a fast pace until the nurse presses on the wound without warning. He couldn't have stopped the piercing howl that slides past his lips even if he wanted to, its echo calling out to whatever higher power watching over them in a pathetic plea to end the suffering as surprisingly strong hands seem to sink into his shoulder in order to stop the bleeding, black spots dancing across his vision whilst air leaves his lungs once again.

 

"Don't be such a pussy, s'just a bullet, not a missile."

 

The words ring in his head with acute clarity as he struggles to look at the man lying on the table a few feet away from him. An arrogant smirk greets his unfocused pupils. It annoys him and he wants so badly to tell the man to go fuck himself, but the only thing he is able to do at the moment is grunt. In truth, it's not the worst pain he has ever felt, but combined with the certainty that his family will die... if they aren't already dead, makes it all the more harrowing as his will to live diminishes gradually. Swallowing the lump that formed in his dry throat, he manages to croak out a lifeless "Go to hell..." before returning to his staring contest with the white ceiling.

 

A low chuckle makes the corners of his mouth tilt into a wary smile. It's war, encounters like these and how they start don't really matter when people are dying everywhere around for a cause they might not fully understand. They don't matter when neither of them has the certainty that he will live to see another day. In truth, they are almost companionable in their own vulgar ways because they have nothing but jokes and insults to trade in a barren land. Once the laughter dies down, he turns to look at the man again, a strange spark connecting them the moment their gazes meet.

 

"Tony."

 

"Iakov."

 

They nod in silent greeting as sharp eyes assess each other while their thoughts romp restlessly inside their minds. The man seems to be quite a bit older than him, maybe in his forties, tired and soaked in gore, but he has the youthful spark most of the soldiers lost along the way of battle, including himself. From a strictly physical point of view, it's an exceedingly impressive feat to still possess a set of lively orbs, a perfectly trimmed expanse of facial hair and a full head of brown locks with merely a few gray strands tangled in it whilst everyone around is either getting bald or completely white. In terms of attitude, Tony, as he identified himself, is literally everything that irritates Iakov, proud, conceited, opinionated and that's coming just from one interaction, but through all that there is a little twist of lovable charm and comfortable camaraderie he is way too thankful for. Perhaps it's not so bad to make an acquaintance after all, his unit got entirely eradicated anyway.

 

Blue eyes widen when he sees a group of five men entering the tent, an oddly familiar picture swaying in the Poruchik's hand as he lifts it to show it to a nurse. Realisation dawns on him instantly. They've come for him sooner than he expected. His expression as well as his tense body must speak volumes because his new companion picks up on his panic far too fast, stare shifting from him to the soldiers and then back to him.

 

"They're searching for you? What unspeakable deed have you conducted?"

 

Under the obvious seriousness in Tony's voice, a hint of amusement fights its way to the surface in a poor attempt to lighten the mood despite the more and more aghast state the former Tsarevich finds himself in. In moments like these, Iakov thanks whatever God or deities there are for the fact that his father thought it better to hide his son's identity on the field. No one knows who he is and it is an advantage that might save his life. The real question here is, does he tell Tony or not? Can he trust the man not to throw him to the dogs for whatever reason or reward his brain may come up with? Regardless of his haughty nature, the man doesn't come off as the traitor type. Iakov could be wrong, of course, but he has always prided himself on his ability to be a great judge of character so he doesn't really have a choice besides taking a calculated risk and hope it doesn't go wrong.

 

"The Imperial Family has fallen."

 

"Yes, I've heard about it, but how does that have anything to do with them looking for you?"

 

Iakov doesn't get the chance to answer the inquiry, a sudden revelation taking over Tony's features.

 

"You're the Tsarevich! The one they didn't find."

 

"Word gets around quite fast, I see. You have to help me."

 

Risking a glance behind, both of them jump when they see how much the soldiers advanced in their chase while they talked, the patrol standing only a few feet away from them. He can't run, else he'll be spotted, he can't hide, he is doomed and nothing can be done.

 

Hope isn't really his thing, but when Tony fumbles with a bundle of gauze and turns to look at him, a blithesome twinkling in his eyes, hope hits him full force.

 

"All right. Let's do this."

 

Sweeping the bandage over a particularly crimson part of his abdomen, careful to make the blood seep into the material to form two relatively circular stains, Tony hands him the gauze with confidence shining in his chocolate orbs.

 

"Wrap it around your head and over your eyes then lie down, it should do the trick."

 

By the time he finishes, the group of soldier is already making its way towards them, not that Iakov can see anything, but Tony can as he leans closer to whisper.

 

"Make it look like you're in excruciating pain."

 

A shadow looms over them while he returns to his sitting position on the ramshackle stretcher, the picture shoved in his face depicting a handsome young man posing with his little brother.

 

"Мы ищем этого человек. Вы его видели?"

 

"Нет И мой друг здесь не очень помогает ни в отделе зрения."

 

All five men have suspicious glints in their stares, eyes narrowing at the groaning man writhing in feigned agony, but neither says a word as they accept the useless information with a nod before continuing their stride towards the next bed for the disabled. Tony watches like a hawk until they leave, deeming it safe to announce their departure to his younger fellow.

 

"Coast clear. You can lose the gauze."

 

Without a second thought, Iakov rips off the blinding cloth, two faint red circles marring his fairly gaunt face. He is probably resembling nothing more and nothing less than a savage racoon, fact that is confirmed by the mufled snicker he hears from the older man.

 

"Not a word."

 

"I didn't say anything."

 

His arched brow is enough to tell Tony the younger doesn't believe him at all, but, in the end, they both laugh it off before falling silent in deep thought.

 

"So, what now, Ваше Величество?"

 

"First, if you want to live, you will stop calling me that. Second, I don't know... the only option I have is to desert and I'm not sure that will go well."

 

"We have to give it a shot. It's better to die trying than die by the hands of those bastards, don't you think?"

 

Bewildered eyes meet earnest ones.

 

"We?"

 

"Yes, we. You think I'll stay behind after this? No, my friend, I'm coming with you. I never liked fighting anyway."

 

Grinning from ear to ear, they start to plot their escape with newfound faith.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poruchik = an officer rank in the lieutenant's rank group, used until 1917  
> "Мы ищем этого человек. Вы его видели?" = "We are looking for this man. Have you seen him?"  
> "Нет И мой друг здесь не очень помогает ни в отделе зрения." = "No, and I don't think my friend here can help much in the vision department either."  
> "Ваше Величество" = "your Majesty"
> 
> The translation probably isn't accurate so feel free to correct anything you see wrong.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hugs!


	3. Заброшенный/Zabroshennyy/Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, but between lack of inspiration and moving to another country for the next 4 months, my writing got a bit... meh is the word for it probably, so sorry for the nonexistent action in this chapter. It has introspectiooon though, and a bit of Romanian history! :)))

By nightfall, their strategy to escape is set and ready to be put into practice, hearts beating fast, sweat sluicing down their battered bodies, brains reeling in their skulls a mile a minute. It is a great risk, they are painfully aware of this, defection was never an easy task, neither was it successful as countless men lost their lives because they followed this path, but Iakov would rather die trying to survive than let his last breath fade away onto the bloody battlefield or in a dark forest, executed by the despicable turncoats he once called his kin. His decision is made, terribly clear along with the inevitability of defeat while images of his comrades' corpses falling under the power of an enemy Empire flash behind closed eyelids. In hindsight, _Hypothesis Z_ was a more than suitable plan to seize the province of Transylvania and potentially eliminate the Austro-Hungarian Empire from the war, there is no doubt of that. Still, the cause of the Romanian Second Army is rapidly heading towards its doom, their objective as a whole crumbling down from the moment Brașov was captured. This is the cold truth, whether they like it or not.

 

There's nothing left to fight for here, there's nothing left to fight for in Sankt Petersburg either so he's choosing to label himself as a deserter, a low-life renegade, rather than stay and meet his end with regret on his mind and pitiful apologies on his lips in a vain attempt to absolve himself from the fact that he never found the courage to let it all go to hell and simply leave. Now, sitting on the hard edge of his mostly improvised bed, minutes away from his relative freedom, he stops to think about how grateful he is that his father decided to send him on the Romanian front. He wasn't happy at first, of course, the juvenility in him screaming for glory as well as the acknowledgement of his bravery from his own people back in the Russian Empire, but if it weren't for his father, perhaps he would've been long dead. Here, in the mountains of a foreign country, blending with grimy soldiers and blood, here, where no one knows who he is or what he's standing for, here, he is safe enough to summon the nerve to run and maybe start anew or perish in the fight to reclaim the throne. He still has the strength to let his mind project a future, but, deep inside, he can only admit to himself alone that almost all of his spirit is utterly broken, shattering with each passing second he's spending alive while his family stands under death's scythe.

 

Taking in a deep breath to gather his wits, he looks at the silent shadow mimicking his position only three beds away from him, eyes meeting in the dark in silent confirmation before they take their small bundles of supplies and rise silently to tiptoe towards the door, wooden planks creaking under heavy boots. A sharp intake of air and a cough stop them in their tracks whilst the rustle of sheets permeates the quiet room. Beads of sweat dribble on their foreheads as they stay frozen to the spot, eyes wide and afraid to even blink. Luck is by their side this time too, fortunately, the noise waning until there's deafening silence again. No one seems to bat an eye as they continue to pad closer to the exit, too exhausted to pay any attention to insignificant sounds, which is strange because war is meant to strike you at any time so everyone should be on alert. He's not complaining though, it makes their job easier. Outside, they see the backs of the patrol just walking past their barracks, the safe confines of the forest calling out to them only feet away. If they make a run for it and keep moving all through the night and morning, they might get far enough to afford a short rest.

 

"Ready?"

 

Tony's voice is jovial, but the slight tremble flickering with it betrays how truly distraught he is under that aloof persona.

 

He nods, scanning the area one more time before jumping into a sprint, everything around him blending into an inky blur. Behind him, Tony's ragged breath mingles with the sound of twigs snapping under their feet while snow and mud crunch together as they form footprints. The logical thing to do is stop and somehow cover their tracks at some point, they know that, but there is no time and the others will surely notice their absence sooner or later so they must reach a safe place before that happens. Neither says a word as they continue to run through boulders and trees in the cold winter night, breathing and functioning on autopilot until the shy light of dawn peeks over the razor-sharp crest of the Carpathians, silently urging them to slow down. They do when the first rays of the sun bounce across the sky, the soles of their feet pulsating with fire and pain as they walk side by side deeper and deeper into the forest without a definite path. What they do know is that they should head as far south as they can then east all the way to Paris, Iakov's grandmother is living there, it's their only chance at a new life once they will be marked as deserters.

 

"What's the plan, your Highness?"

 

Furrowed brows deepen the crease on the former prince's forehead even further at the mention of his lost title, blue orbs shifting to the older man sauntering at his side.

 

"Don't know about you, but I will drag myself to Paris."

 

"Ah, yes, Paris, beautiful streets, nice girls, great wine. Mind if I tag along? It's been a while since I last saw the Eiffel Tower, might as well take the opportunity."

 

Iakov's curious glance and his raised eyebrow don't go unnoticed and Tony already sensed the question waiting to be asked, quickly answering before the Russian could voice it.

 

"My old man was a man of science and innovation, a man of the future let's say. He traveled far and wide, promoting strange concepts, shouting his ideas for the whole world to hear and know about the unique technology just waiting to be invented in the years to come. Rome, London, Berlin, Paris, each and every one of those big cities he saw and awed with the ingenuity inside his brain. Out of all, I've only been to Paris. How or why he decided to take me with him back then, considering the fact that he never cared about me before, will always remain a mystery to me, but I'm glad he did in a way, although we never got along..."

 

The younger is aware that so much was left out, deliberately unsaid yet undoubtedly flashing in Tony's head, but he does not press, a long silence falling upon them as his unspoken inquiry hangs in the air like a dense fog until the older soldier finally decides to give an end to his brief interlude in the past.

 

"He died when I was twenty-one..."

 

A hollow howl echoes in the distance, merging perfectly with the forlorn look on Tony's face. In other circumstances, the former Tsarevich would have let his curiosity reign over, but the finality of their conversation is as evident as the blizzard threatening to freeze off their fingers. So, they keep walking and walking until all that can go through their minds is the damn repetitive motion of moving their feet, eyes bleary from weariness, almost glued by the snow frozen on their eyelashes, cheeks red from the harsh whips of the wind, lips turning bluer and bluer by the second whereas their uniforms fail to keep them warm. It feels like an eternity spent desperately trying to find their way out of a glacial white hell. For Iakov, with each step he takes standing upright becomes a more and more impossible action, the weight of his bones a burden he no longer wishes to carry on his numb legs while the effort of lucidity gradually shuts down his synapses. Beside him, Tony fires up with odd determination, snow glistening on his gelid moustache as he squints his eyes, pupils fighting to focus on the trees ahead, all the while stealing a glance to make sure the boy is all right.

 

When Iakov loses his footing, falling face first into the powdery frost, their chances to make it out of this alive diminish further and further. When howls and hungry growls reach Tony's ears, their survival becomes questionable. When furry heads and tails and pristine fangs enter his field of vision, death starts knocking at their proverbial door all too soon.

 


	4. Выживание/Vyzhivaniye/Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four is heeeere, people! Some new in the big picture as well and a cute moment slipped in there by yours truly involving pretty blue eyes.
> 
> Enjoy and Feedback, please!

Tony's first instinct is to protect, rushing over to his unconscious companion as savage snarls get closer and closer by the second, four pairs of golden eyes circling them. Fear, helplessness, despair, adrenaline and survival-fueled courage, all drown him under their raging torrent while he tries in vain to shake the man out of his inert state.

 

"Hey! Hey, buddy, you can't give up now... Wake up!"

 

Then... they pounce.

 

It's bloody and it nearly results in their demise, but, somehow, Tony manages to kill the wolves intent on making him and Iakov their food. Using just the barrel of his rifle and a grapple paired with some well-placed punches whilst clothes ripped under razor-sharp fangs is not a pleasant experience by any standards. Not to mention the intensifying blizzard masking the predators with its curtain flakes. Despite all, he came out victorious and relatively in good shape, an exasperated why repeating in his head. God has been throwing at him all sorts cruel challenges, tests and jokes once in a while, but thankfully he gave him only four beasts to fight this time and he is grateful because, if there were more, he would've certainly lost the battle and the risk they have taken in order to defect would've been for nothing.

 

In the end, all this encounter did was leave him with a deep gash on his right arm and other minor scratches on his shoulders and face, but, strangely enough, revitalised and warm, at least for a while that is. How he managed to fight them by himself and still protect Iakov is beyond him, an inner power that only showed when on the front-lines, screaming his guts out while shooting as many enemies as he could and trying to stay alive during the whole ordeal. Pure madness, but that's what war is, mud, disease and pointless deaths caused by the endless selfishness and obsessions of a few men who crown themselves as leaders of the human kind.

 

Iakov is an ice statue when he touches him, a weak pulse barely pulsing under the boy's blue-hued skin as Tony struggles to pick him up despite the blood still flowing from his injury. No gauze, no alcohol, no other cloths to disinfect and stop the bleeding is a reality that makes it difficult for Tony to keep a clear head, yet, in the end, he is able to swing one of Iakov's arm over his shoulders and begin a slow process of dragging both of their weights as far from the carnage as he can in hopes that somewhere in the forest, a hut is waiting for them, preferably with someone inhabiting it too.

 

It seems like an eternity of walking into nothingness before his legs give out completely and they fall into a heap on the soft cushion of snow, wild winds howling around them akin to a widow's cry. Perhaps they were not meant to come out of this alive from the very beginning, yet the thought of drawing his last breath among the slumbering creatures of the forest sounds far more appealing than being teared to shreds in a meaningless war. Beside him, Iakov might be already gone, a peaceful expression freezing his young features in time. Chocolate orbs fight to stay open, but everything around him gradually alters into a visual mess as he feels his eyelids fall heavily over his eyes and a blissfully pitch-black abyss guiding his mind into unconsciousness.

 

"See you later... kid."

 

◇◇◇

 

Warmth seeps through his bones, mellow crackles echoing nearby along with light footsteps pacing back and forth on a creaking wooden floor. If not for this, he would've thought he's dead and gone to some kind of lukewarm hell. He's fairly glad to find out it's not actually that way. It's difficult to literally unstick his eyelids from their pretty much glued status, but he succeeds, the dim light of the unfamiliar room greeting his slowly adjusting pupils. Turning his head to the side is an almost impossible task, head throbbing from the mere movement along with his now unfrozen skin. A shadow blocks his view then, delicate fingers resting on his forehead and a glimpse of red catching his eye before he passes out.

 

◇◇◇

 

When he wakes up again, he is greeted by a gentle hum caressing his ears. This time it doesn't hurt when he moves his head to look to the side, trying to locate the source of the melancholic tune. The first thing he spots however, is Iakov tucked up under two layers of blankets while a woman puts an undoubtedly cold compress on his feverish forehead. Light emeralds snap in his direction then and the beauty he sees is enchantingly otherworldly in the soft glow of the flames. Russet locks contrast with smooth, pale skin, full lips set into a straight line of aloofness whilst arms cross over a fairly generous chest area. She paints the perfect picture of a fiery goddess staring right at him with feline eyes, fur-lined coat covering her indubitably present curves. In spite of this first impression, he should be a bit put off mainly because, instead of simply enjoying the view like he normally would in any given situation, his thoughts flicker instantly to the well-being of his comrade and to how much more beautiful his blue-grey eyes are compared to hers. Going down that path is obviously not a good idea, so he resolves to turn his attention back to the redhead staring at him.

 

"I guess I should thank you..."

 

"Natasha."

 

"Natasha."

 

Her name sounds strange on his subtly americanised tongue, but he definitely likes it. From what he gathers, he also has no chance of getting much out of her, at least not at the moment. She doesn't really seem the easily trusting type of person, but then again she helped them so she might not be that bad either. All things considered, he will keep his guard up, even as he glances concernedly at the sweating boy a few feet away from his bed.

 

"How is he?"

 

A virtually loving look twinkles in her eyes while she gazes at Iakov. Why? Tony doesn't know, but maybe he will find out in the near future. The bright part is he probably has no reason to assume she will cut their throats in their sleep.

 

"You were almost completely covered by snow when I found you. He was still breathing, but barely, and you were close to that point too, but still salvageable. At first, I wanted to leave him there, his hypothermia was far worse than yours and he was going to die soon anyway, but... I just couldn't so I brought both of you back with me. Surprisingly enough, he woke up before you did, mumbling something about the Tsar and some Anastasia girl before blacking out again. His fever has been going strong ever since, but I have hope that he will pull through."

 

Tony can't suppress the fond smile tugging at his lips. From the moment he met Iakov, he knew the kid will always be a fighter.

 


End file.
